


Led, but not astray

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Trident_Love's Friday prompt: <i>Merlin and Gwaine know Arthur is watching them closely/listening and they put on a good show to tease him into finally admitting he wants in</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Led, but not astray

They're going to touch, Arthur can see it. Arthur knows it.

They're going to touch, and it's going to be more than the touch of friends, and it's going to be more than the touch of brothers-in-arms, and it's going to be more than any touch Arthur has ever given to Merlin, and it's going to tear Arthur's heart out and it's going to rip his honour to shreds, but he cannot look away.

Will not look away.

They are both bare from the waist up, their trousers slung low, colour riding high in their skin, and Gwaine knows his way around a body for the purposes of death and the purposes of love both, and the way he touches Merlin frames him like art to Arthur's view. It's a caress, along tight sinew and hard, flat muscle, and it makes Merlin crash like the tide - Arthur can see the blue ocean in his eyes swash in and out with every blink, every flick of his black lashes against his pale cheeks.

Merlin's hands are sure and thin and astringent like herbs. Arthur knows their smell and their firmness on his skin when Merlin is being professional and careful and not asking for anything but his job and his life (oh, Arthur knows about the magic, Arthur has lost sleep over Merlin and his magic, for half of him knows he should kill Merlin and half of him wants to feel that power between his hands - he's lost sleep for guilt and for anger and for the hottest, the fieriest of lusts as well), but now those hands are holding Gwaine by his elbows the same way you hold a bridled horse by the reins, to control it, and so Gwaine smooths his fingers over Merlin's hipbones as Merlin leans closer and reels him in.

They are kissing now, and Arthur digs his fingers into the arms of his chair, will _bleed_ from the beds of his nails before he blinks, before he lets himself acknowledge, before he lets his lips part on the panting gasp of air that writhes in his lungs.

Gwaine's mouth parts easily for Merlin, but he doesn't stay passive, oh no. He pulls Merlin closer and he slides his hands up Merlin's sleek back until he can cradle Merlin's head in his hands. It makes Merlin tighten up and take what he's given, pulls a moan from his throat that sounds almost unwilling.

'Come,' Gwaine murmurs against Merlin's damp skin, 'Let him hear you. Let him see how much you want this,' and Merlin's eyes shiver closed. 'Let him _know_ ,' Gwaine says, and Merlin makes a sound so wanting, so dark, that Arthur wishes everything and everyone far away so that he could put his own hand on his own cock with no fear of repercussion.

His eyes slip closed, and he cannot do a thing, swept away.

'Arthur,' Gwaine says, and Arthur's eyes snap open again only to light on Gwaine on his knees, drawing Merlin's trousers down slowly, decadently, like the slide of worn brown cloth over Merlin's knees is somehow beautiful (it is). The sight of Gwaine looking up at Merlin and Merlin looking down, and their lust like desperate worship passing between them, will reduce Arthur to nothing.

His fingers ache from their grip on the chair, from not being in contact, from not _touching_. He feels every place the laces of his clothes light on his skin, reminding him that he's trapped - in his clothes, in his role, in his throne, in his own propriety. Gwaine's trousers have fallen low enough to reveal the curve of his arse, and Merlin is naked save for the shackles of his clothing, loose around his ankles. As Arthur watches, Gwaine opens again for Merlin, only this time for his cock - his mouth is hungry, arrogant, eloquent as it takes Merlin in.

Merlin's spine bows, and he noises like this is destroying him and he welcomes it, just rounded beautiful syllables of nonsense, and Arthur thinks he can ride this out, can look away (hasn't yet, but he could, he can, he will), until Merlin's hand fists in Gwaine's hair and draws his head back so that they are looking at each other again. The way their eyes meet and the thin string of mess that connects them from Gwaine's mouth to where Merlin is hard - the ties that bind them are so strong.

'Arthur,' Merlin breathes as Gwaine draws him down to the floor so that they can kneel together. 'Arthur, look at me.' His voice is barely more than a sandy whisper.

Arthur does as he's asked, looks and looks and keeps looking as Merlin pushes Gwaine back onto the skin rug. 'This isn't something you have to hide from,' Merlin rasps, and as he unfastens Gwaine's trousers, Gwaine reaches into his own pocket and produces a bottle. His eyes are unfocusing with every paddle of Merlin's fingers on his body, but he doesn't need focus - Merlin has enough of that, sloppy and warm though it is.

Gwaine nude is pink-brown and lush-looking, darker than Merlin, flushing red on contact. Merlin eases one of his legs up into a tight bend, foot flat on the floor, and reaches between them with fingertips slicked with whatever Gwaine's bottle contained. 'This isn't something you have to hide from,' Merlin repeats. 'This is something you can have. Watch me, Arthur,' and he bites his lip and presses his fingers home. Gwaine's body roils under his attention, his face turned to Arthur, mouth a wet space, his eyes deep, dark, and disbelieving.

'Please,' Gwaine says, loud and crackling and Arthur doesn't know who he's pleading with. Merlin does - he kneels in the spread of Gwaine's thighs and pulls them together, aligns himself carefully but quickly. ' _Please_.'

'He's ready for me,' Merlin says, and starts to lean forwards and in. 'He's done this before, he likes it -' Merlin's face is flushing - Gwaine's is wrecked.

Arthur will not, he _will not_ try to guess how that feels. He will not put himself in that scene, he will not want this. There are now marks in the wooden arms of his chair where he has scored deep in his determination. He will wash his clothes himself rather than let Merlin see his weakness in sweat marks and the stains on the inside of his smallclothes where his cock rubs, wet and getting wetter in drips and pulses.

'- but when you do this to me, I'll be tighter, you'll have to go slower, Arthur, you'll have to be soft with me. I - I haven't, before -'

'Please,' Gwaine says again, interrupts, and it's definitely Arthur he's begging now, 'Arthur, it has to be both of us, can't you see?' Merlin's beyond talking now, his body making slapping noises, groans, twisted breaths, but no words. Gwaine levers himself up, arching like a cat and trying to drag himself closer. 'Arthur, he _needs_ you -'

And Arthur is the weakest of men, but he could never ignore a plea. His shirt he tears, his trousers and smallclothes he drops as he stands, and the rug bunches under his knees as he grabs for the bottle, which Merlin had dropped to the side. Merlin is rutting now, sunk down between Gwaine's legs and hardly moving except for the shuddering rolling of his hips.

The bottle is full of oil. Arthur almost fumbles it, but Gwaine's hand comes up to catch. 'Steady,' the knight says in a voice that is anything but. 'You know what to do.' He pushes himself up, and Merlin out, hissing as he does so. Merlin goes to all fours pliantly, his head hung low between his shoulders, and Gwaine gentles him with a hand on his jaw and one in his hair, soft kisses to his eyelids and the corners of his mouth.

Arthur wants to watch, but more than that he wants to give Merlin his desire, and Merlin, with his back bowed and his legs spread, is telling him what that is. So Arthur wets his fingers and begins.

At some point one finger sliding becomes two pushing, becomes three begging, and Merlin's voice has returned and his words have been lost again in the mire, and Arthur looks up to see Gwaine's hands both in Merlin's hair now, drawing Merlin's mouth up and down his cock slowly.

Gwaine's eyes are butter-soft, fire-warmed when he says, 'Now, Arthur.' Arthur kneels up and finds his way home.

Merlin's body is a vice, is a vise - it corrupts him and it holds him firm, and he sinks into the sin of it, the surety and the surrender, gives himself to it. His own actions become a hazy mirage, something he cannot track, because he has this glorious heat and it has become all he can feel, all he can ever know.

He and Gwaine have Merlin between them, the shortest distance there has ever been between them, connecting them like a line, and Merlin and Arthur fit like the join is fixing a break between halves rather than connecting two wholes. One by one - Gwaine, then Merlin, then Arthur, they spend themselves, and Gwaine's release drips from Merlin's mouth like honey from the comb, and Merlin spits himself on Arthur and comes to completion with a cry and a twisting, desperate motion like he has to push himself yet further, and Gwaine holds him up with hard fingers and soft kisses until Arthur loses himself in Merlin's body.

And he is lost. Maybe he will never find his way home, but he has these two to guide him. Arthur is the weakest of men, oh yes. But Arthur does not have to be a man on his own.


End file.
